ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/harrison/har11

Text File | 1991-07-04 | 27KB | 558 lines

               Copyright 1991 by Jim Vassilakos.
                      All Rights Reserved.
           Permission is hereby granted by the copyright
           holder to copy and freely redistribute copies
         of this work, so long as no commericial or barter
       consideration is obtained in exchange for such copies.



                             Eleven



The nightlife was blossoming in its usual splendor for the
Calannic capital, the blues, reds, and sunny yellows of
eveningwear mocking the conservative, almost draconian apparel of
the working day. Xkutyr was known, locally as well as abroad, as
the undercity of sleepless dreams. Before the war, the Duke of
Arcadia was said to be a frequent visitor, reputedly lounging
within the watery, volcanic caverns awaiting noble orgies too
numerous to enumerate. At least, that was the popular philosophy.
History, on Calanna, was jaded at best, most recently by the war.
Mike had always regarded the stories as a poor attempt at anti-
Imperial propaganda, but whenever he visited the Temple of the
Wrything Mermaid, he was always persuaded to reconsider his point
of view.
   On this occasion, the waters churned with unusual vivacity,
the warm glow of soaking bodies paddling on the surface as others
more intrepid ventured beneath, between the terraces of gravity
nullifiers and into the labyrinth beyond. Mike found himself
swimming within a crowd of strangers, some groping each other for
comfort and others huddled within large floating bubbles of
oxygen, bodies intertwined, playing games of the flesh for all to
see. Together they imbibed amber and purple fluids from plastic
sluispheres, bubbles within bubbles holding potent aphrodisiacs
judging from the inclinations those who shared them.
   Most came here out of boredom, hoping to find fascination in a
moment's idle folly. Others, however, came here out of pain, a
few thousand drin to smother one burrowing intoxication with yet
another and that perhaps with another still. Of course, it was
all Bill's money, but that didn't matter; he wouldn't need it
anymore. Mike was sure of that much.
   He swam until the water grew cold and dense and the oxygen
bubbles became too few to venture further. Alone, in an alcove,
he shivered, bare of everything save the mandatory wrist locator.
The air grew musty and coarse and he tried to close his eyes and
sleep, but the water was too frigid this far out from the
complex. Suddenly bubbles emerged from below and a woman clad in
a gelsuit appeared, her black hair slicked back by the cold water
as she emerged.
   "Vanwalye?"
   Mike regarded her question for all of five seconds.
   "Uh... No."
   "Uquenlye Calain?"
   "Umm... lastalmet."
   "Tulye?"
   Mike wondered if he had a choice. They had probably seen how
far he was going and sent her out to fetch him back. There was
nothing like a troublesome offworlder to piss off the management.
Her worried, green eyes seemed to confirm the assessment.
   "Okay," Mike nodded. She moved closer to help him.
   "No, really, I'm fine. I'll just follow. Hilmet. Okay?"
   "Okay," her anxious smile confirmed the communication more
than her use of the galanglic. She kept a slow pace, feeding him
oxygen from her tank at several intervals. By the time they
reached the warm waters, Mike figured he was lucky he hadn't
ditched the locator.
   After he dressed, Mike spent the next hour sitting at a table
along the stony terrace, sipping Miruvor and re-scanning the
various databases. The girl came back to check on him, apparently
trying to tell him something from the ledge before being yanked
backward into the bubbly water by another employee. Mike waived
as she was dragged beneath the steaming surface. The bottom half
of her gelsuit emerged several moments later, floating around the
surface as various patrons began tossing it back and forth
between the access pools.
   Cecil was nowhere to be found. Even the search on the
planetwide directory turned up nothing. Mike went back to
investigating the local boards when he came across a familiar
name.
   "Doggie Blitz?"
   He entered within the steady stream other electronic
freefloaters, quietly carousing the various sub-boards for
something of interest. He then passed along to the membership
records, or at least those sections open for public scrutiny. A
number of faces flashed across his screen, most of them
chipheads, one of them strangely familiar.
   "Check 143/741."
   "User online."
   "Call him."
   "Error. Respecify at call."
   "Call 143/741."
   "Waiting... connect."
   "Yo?"
   "Umm... Hi, 'member me? Command open visual. Umm... in the
underway. Purchasing tickets?"
   "Huh? Oh yeah. You lookin' fer some output."
   "That's right. I was wondering if maybe we could meet
someplace. I may have more than just output in mind."
   "Such as..."
   "Finding a friend of mine."
   "Well, I guess that depends mainly on who it is you're looking
for. If you could just give me the name now, I'd be able to give
you a better idea when we meet."
   "You sure that's safe?"
   "Uhhh... let's see... you're in sector thirteen. Let me repipe
this, hold on.... Okay, go ahead."
   "The name is Cecil Dulin. He used to be a local res..."
   "Hold on... did you say Cecil Dulin?"
   "Yeah."
   "Uhh... sorry, I don't think I can help you there dude."
   "What's the matter?"
   "Gotta jam."
   "Wait... damnit."
   "Na Manor."
   "Huh? Oh, hi. I thought you lost your suit."
   "Ulastalmet."
   "Uh... nevermind." Mike reverted to the Calannic, but his
words came out wrong when he tried to explain anything too
complex. Her green eyes twinkled as she laughed, either
perceptibly oblivious to his being both an offworlder and a
chiphead, or incapable of harboring either of the two most common
prejudices.
   "I no understand why you go in cold water without air tank."
   "Umm... I dunno either."
   She liked that one. Her eyes seemed to glitter more with each
new giggle, the easy laughter reminding him of Niki, but her eyes
were too shallow and sparkly. Mike rubbed his cast, still encased
in its mermaid-plastic sheath, wondering how long the tissue-
stabilization would last.
   "Where you are staying?"
   "Umm... no place yet."
   "Ah, you just arrive then."
   "You could say that."
   "You looking for a place on computer?"
   "I'm looking."
   "Hard to find."
   "Yeah."
   "Maybe you find a friend?"
   Mike froze cold before he realized what she meant. She started
giggling again, taking his look entirely the wrong way.
   "You do find friend. Is easy here. Yes?"
   "If you say so."
   "If you like, I have extra space."
   "Between your ears," Mike added in Galanglic.
   "Huh?"
   "Nevermind."
   "No?"
   "Well... okay. Sure."
   "Okay?"
   The cold breeze gave ample excuse for her to nuzzle against
him as they exited the underway, the puddles of water on the
streets congealing with motor oil and fragments of dead leaves in
the dim light of actinic lamps. Drunk stragglers and chipheads
we're the only inhabitants between the seldom cab carrying home a
late-shifter from the city below. Several drivers huddled just
outside the doors, gambling via coin-toss and drinking mataxa.
   "Hey... any of you speak Galanglic?"
   "Quesse? Hallon... neghral?" They seemed to get a good laugh.
   "Very funny; maybe you speak the universal language." Mike
rubbed a fifty k'drin note between him forefinger and thumb.
   He rode with Vilya in the back seat, watching a pale fog build
on the windows as they drove to the outskirts of the city. At a
quiet intersection, Mike nudged the driver and pointed to a
corner tele-booth.
   "Dalmet?"
   "Stop. You wait."
   "huh?"
   "Wait. Stay here."
   "No go?"
   "No go."
   He entered the booth, hitting the operator assistance key
while depositing several coins. Outside, the driver rubbed his
windshield with a dirty, brown rag.
   "Gardansa, first name Narsil. Yes.... Hello? Yes, I know what
time it is. I need to speak with the General... just tell him
it's Michael Harrison."

                        *     *     *

"Meow..."
   Mike awoke as something clawed his head jacks, a cool ripple
of pain flowing across his skull as he bolted upright, tossing
the feline across the room.
   "You no like pussy?"
   A faint shimmer of light caught the pistol's fiberglass
barrel, Vilya lowering it just a notch as she waited for Mike's
reply. He studied her eyes, green spheres twinkling with
mischief.
   "I find out what 'between your ears' mean, asshole."
   She clicked back the pistol's lever, preparing for the shot as
she licked her lips. Too high and she'd make a mess. Too low and
she'd have to use another bullet. Mike stared straight down the
barrel, trying arrogantly to suppress the cool sweat breaking
along the jacks in his skull. She pulled the trigger, the barrel
clicking with a faint resonance.
   "Ha ha... me funny."
   Mike batted the gun out of her hands, tumbling out of the bed
as she scampered across the floor. She finally locked herself
inside the bathroom, her spasmodic laughter ringing through the
keyhole.
   "Come out here, Vil."
   "No way! You apology."
   He pocked the gun and searched though his bag, finally finding
the bullets beneath the dodecahedron.
   "Me?!" Mike nearly gagged, pointing the weapon toward the
bathroom door. "I think you're forgetting one little thing. I'm
the one who has the gun, now."
   "Ha ha ha..."
   "Meow."
   "Or maybe I should just shoot your cat."
   The door opened and Vilya crossed the floor to her cat,
picking him up and returning to the bathroom before Mike could so
much as bat an eyelash.
   "Vilya."
   "Hee hee hee..."
   "Meow."
   Mike lifted the dodecahedron off the floor, nestling its
weight in his lap. Its cermic exterior carried a dull glimmer in
the warm morning light, each surface flat and smooth except for
one. There lay etched the figure of a songbird, its wings
outstretched as though in flight. Mike regarded it with an
unfamiliar mixture of relief and apprehension.
   "Apology!"
   "Fine... I'm sorry."
   "I can't hear you."
   The ragged curtain of red twill flapped from the window's edge
as he cocked the pistol.
   "Hee hee hee..."
   He finally coaxed her out of the bathroom by frying up a can
of mash and onions, the most universal sustenance in her
cupboards. They ate in between the morning newsvids and cold cups
of zardocha. The gatherers on the monitors we're a pair of public
faces, computer generated images which the government had been
using for newscasts over the past century. The eyes of the female
seemed to bulge out and cross as though she were reading from cue
cards, an effort to make her image more realistic. Mike
remembered reading about the development in an industry update.
   "And now to the local headlines... an unidentified woman was
killed yesterday in gunfire at the 1st Interstellar Bank.
Although officials are withholding her name, the victim was
purported to be in the process of cashing a promissory note for
fifty million drin. It is believed that the check was stolen from
one, Michael James Harrison, an independent gatherer with
Galactic Publications. According to the GID, Harrison was
terminated by the woman in accordance with global bounty codes
and that the shooting was an unlawful retaliation by the
Galatican. Harrison, author of Shattered Eden, gained
interstellar fame with the..."
   Mike changed the channel as his press image materialized in
the corner of the screen.
   "Hey... I was watching," Vilya flicked a speck of potato in
his general direction. The other channels proved just as dull,
but the ensuing battle over the remote control made up for it. He
found himself back on her bed, exhausted, as she left for work,
her cat purring at his side in contented bliss.
   Outside, the afternoon sun sank slowly into a hazy dusk as
Mike patiently hoofed his way across the city. Cecil had been
waiting for well over a year, and another cent wouldn't matter.

                      *     *     *

The ochin dangled precariously from a single thread of its silken
web as its spindly legs flailed aside the remains of its latest
victim, a tiny mitzignat. The insect's carcass tossed and turned
slowly within the nullfield until a lazy spitter gobbled it down
with a swift dash of it sticky tongue. Tasting the pungent
fragrance of the ochin's poison, the spitter turned sideways and
retreated into the darkness.
   Though still insatiate, the ochin felt safer. Warily, it crept
along the narrow commcord which served as a spine to the web,
providing some structural foundation for the fragile strands of
its home. A dim buzz resounded against the walls of the room as
the ochin reached the end of the commcord. It paused to feel the
momentary vibrations on the cool air.
   The man couldn't hear the buzz. He hung limp in the air,
supported only by thin fractures in the null-gravity. His dull
senses couldn't feel the ochin as it slowly edged its way along
his grizzly beard, searching the maw of unkept hair for juicy
goobugs. His thick, oily thatch barely left an egress for the
slimy worms which secreted their viscous ooze.
   Suddenly the gravmodule flickered, and his body slowly
descended to the wooden floor, ripping away the ochin's web and
scattering the boopreys as the dusty, maggot-ridden planks
creaked soundly underneath the weight of his emaciated body. He
lay still for several hours without breathing, his programs
refusing the interruption; however, the feeder, uncompromising,
forced a disconnection as his weak lungs involuntarily gasped for
air.
   It was evening before he could feel the raw itch. It came on
slowly, like a sleeping devil, seeming a thousand times more
penetrating than anything he could ever remember. For hours he
lay still, unable to resolve the agony before his olfactory
senses came around, allowing him to smell the hellish stench of
his own rot. Yet, the itch and the stench only served as a
distraction which he used to fight the maddening bunkum of raw
data which muttered sporadic illusions within the locule of his
mind.
   Slowly, he felt the enzymes go to work, exciting his endocrine
gland, pushing adrenalin into his bloodstream, building momentum
in his heartbeat, fighting the impending shock. He fluttered his
eyelids, the action igniting a stream of ideas, each vaguely
interrelated, but they swept by so swiftly that all he could
remember was the fragment of a distant dream.
   Slowly, he realized that he was sitting upright. He heard the
distant hum of the spitter in the corner of the room. The feeder
lay next to him; it was already disconnected. He couldn't
remember touching it.
   "Who's there?"
   His voice sounded dry and mottled. He couldn't recognize it as
his own, but there it was with nobody to answer. Then he heard
the door close.
   The tub was brown with mold; a family of quagroachs nested on
the floor beneath the grating. He tumbled himself inside and
searched for the rusty handle. The ice-cold water hammered
against the floor, bathing his still insensitive skin as he
rubbed off folds of dead flesh. Soon the welts that merely itched
began to sting.
   The scum collected around his neck as the waterline
threatened. Slowly, he stood, his arms grasping the grimy runners
on the walls of the tub. As the water continued to rise,
overtaking his waist, he let one hand fall away, testing the
strength of his legs and their balance.
   He wasn't aware of the blade until it cut his ear. He tugged
it loose from its cord and began to shave, slicing the filthy
hair away with deep strokes close to the skin. The goobugs
dropped into the water around his waist. Tangled deep within the
matted hair, they sunk and drowned beneath the pounding water. He
fingered his skull for the jacks; the important things were
always as he remembered them.
   He was too tired to think about it now. The water at his chest
beckoned. How easy, he considered, it would be to drown. He sunk
down beneath the murky water, its numbing chill bringing with it
a strange sense of satisfaction. With a twist of the lever, the
floor beneath the grating opened, and the water, bugs, and hair
swirled away.

                       *     *     *

Moonlight shimmered through the doorway like a icy veil, its
narrow edge stretching across the hardwood floor. She stepped
quietly into the dim, misty light, letting her bags slip clumsily
from her arms.
   "Mikael? You still here, you leech?"
   "Meow..."
   A purple glimmer settled beneath patchy, black clouds along
the western horizon as the red cab swerved along the central
highway. The driver hummed to himself most of the way, his right
foot jogging a tempo against the floor as he drove. Mike tried to
fall asleep, but the bumping of wheels into shallow potholes made
him nauseous. They were nearly three hours outside Xin when the
car turned off the pavement, taking a dirt trail up a grassy
hillside, wildflowers growing in yellow and blue patches along
the road's surface.
   "Where go?"
   "Left... no, that way... left. You know left from right?"
   "Huh?"
   "Keep going; you're doing fine."
   The driver skidded to a sudden halt as they reached the outer
gate. Mike climbed out of the car and paid the balance. The
driver opened his window a crack to receive the money and then
drove out backwards, loose gravel sweeping under the cab's tires
as he gunned the motor.
   Two men clothed in executioner's leather led him through the
gates. Their uniforms betrayed no insignia denoting either rank
or service. Private henchmen, Mike figured. It was all that
Gardansa had left. His house was like a temple, two marble
statues rising as solemn pillars, one the fool and the other an
emperor. Black veins ran their full height and the three men
crossed between.
   Gardansa stood against the tall, ponderous door, a canopy of
yellow daisies gleaming in the faint moonlight. His smooth lips
curved within some determined pleasantry.
   "General."
   "Gatherer Harrison. So delightful to see you again." The man's
eyes turned dark and saucer shaped as he laughed, his fleshy chin
dangling and bouncing as he bobbed his head in welcome.
   The house was warm and smelled of sweet perfume. Numerous
busts littered the hallways, and the hearth glowed with fiery
sparks rising up the chimney only to swirl back down as fine
black ash. The general picked short bits of hair from his nose as
they talked, flicking them into the steady stream of warm air.
They wafted about in the current, occasionally catching within
the thick fur of his brown fez.
   "I am sorry to hear such dread news of your friends, but then
friends come and go. That is the way of life."
   Mike nodded, not sure how to respond.
   "And, after all, she was a Siri. And the other one, a traitor
against you. So well you pick your friends; makes me wonder that
you are still around to tell me stories."
   He chuckled at some image lurking deep within his mind. It was
a dry sort of noise, starting below his throat and wafting upward
like the quaking of a volcano.
   "How like the past, this seems. Traitors and psyches. One must
somehow breed the other. You not agree?"
   "I don't know, general. I came here seeking the answer to
another question."
   "Ahh," he nodded reluctantly, "it is an answer which I could
not divulge were even I to somehow become of it aware."
   "And why is that?"
   "Might I interest you in some brandy, Mister Harrison."
   "Not tonight, General."
   "You know, before you and your psyche saved my life, I never
thought that I would allow an offworlder in my home, and to allow
an offworlder to enter, and leave sober... now that is
unthinkable."
   Mike finally relented in the hope of placating his host. The
drink was a deep crimson variety from Ares. Making brandy and
building guns were the only two things they did well.
   "You are in a very reflective mood tonight, my friend. It
makes me tremble to smell such thought in my very home. And yet,
mysteriously, you stay your tongue. What chains are these that
hold you?"
   "I guess I'm just bummed out."
   "Bummed out?"
   "This whole trip has been one disaster after another."
   "Ah... but is that not the life of the gatherer? To sacrifice
and lose heart and shed all things precious only to triumph in
the end, how like the life of the soldier. You and me, we are
very much the same, no?"
   "I suppose so," Mike swallowed another gulp, its acidic flavor
coating the length of his throat.
   "And to die... that is the sweetest sacrifice. How more alike
we seem, myself in virtual exile, and you..."
   He suddenly burst out with a wheezing fit of laughter, his
cheeks puffing into a patronizing smile.
   "Now that you are officially dead, your enemies will no longer
be watching for you. What an advantage we have created, you and
I. Cast it away, you could. We could easily arrange for your
passage off-planet."
   "No."
   "No?" The general's pudgy-cheeked grin melted into a bare-
toothed smirk as he stared into vacant space, his eyes glazed
with eager satisfaction.
   "Then you must use your advantage, and swiftly. It will not
take our enemies long to realize they have been fooled."
   "You can't tell me anything about Erestyl."
   "As to that, you might ask your friend, Mister Dulin. And when
you see him, warn him to be more careful. It is not often, on
Calanna, one is granted a reprieve."
   Mike nodded, "I'm sure he's aware of that."
   "The question, Mister Harrison, is whether or not you are."
   Mike sucked down the last of the Aresian brandy, a sour
expression crossing his face as the general grinned in approval.
   "Someday, if you live long enough, I will teach you to drink
like a true Calannan."
   "Thanks, General. I think," Mike pulled himself upright, his
bad shoulder still aching despite the numbing fluid within the
cast. Gardansa reached for the bottle, his fingers fumbling at
the cork as he shook his head unsympathetically.
   "No, you must be certain."
   "I'm certain... truly and without doubt. Do you have a
terminal around here, by the way?"
   "You are quite certain?" Gardansa prodded.
   "Absolutely. Someday. Some other day."
   The Doggie Blitz seemed to have a larger share of traffic than
the night before, its electronic corridors clogging with
conversation. Mike floated with the frenzy, picking up bits and
pieces of conventional wisdom on the various sub-boards. It
seemed word had already spread of Cecil's escape from the
cellars. The lingo seemed especially prodigious at coming up with
new words for various non-places.
   Cecil's state was nothing more than electronic disembodiment,
something about which Mike cared little and understood less. He
engaged a few of the patrons on the topic, hoping to gain more
information about Cecil's exact crime against the authorities,
but nobody seemed to be able to agree even on the basic facts.
Finally the person he was looking for appeared online.
   "Call 143/741"
   "Waiting... connect."
   "You got the Spokes-man."
   "Hi, you still can't help with Cecil?"
   "Aww, man... not you again." His image wavered on the screen,
its contours shifting as he spat a piece of food at his terminal
lens.
   "Who else? Besides, I figured you'd be happy to see me."
   "All I wanna know is how you did it."
   "Check where I'm calling from."
   "Hold on... ummm... damn, out of the district. Can't get a
fix. You tell me. No, wait. Let me guess. A certain general."
   "Very good," Mike tried not to sound patronizing.
   "Damn straight. I saw your face in more than one place last
night. Figured I'd never have to look at it again, too."
   "That was a little gatherer magic. It comes with knowing
certain generals and drinking whatever they put in front of your
face."
   "Yeah, I read up on you. Some dirty deeds. So how come you're
still alive?"
   "Umm... that's actually a pretty good question," Mike rubbed
his shoulder, the pain pivoting in and out of focus. "Actually, I
need you to do a little job. That is, if you're not afraid of the
authorities."
   "Hey, I don't follow anybody to the cellars. You can't pay me
enough."
   "I don't want you to go out... I want you to go in."
   "Huh?"
   "A robot brain. Draconian design if I'm not missing my guess.
You interested?"
   "Draconian. Is it sentient?"
   "I guess that depends on your definition."
   "I'll take a look at it. Meet me at the Tiberian Compound at
twenty-five cents. Suite 112J."
   "I'll be there."
   Gardansa was not a man for long goodbyes. When Mike returned
to the drawing room, the general was already fast asleep, snoring
in his armchair as lumps of loose flesh jiggled on his chin.
Within the hallways, the busts seemed to snicker with mischievous
delight. The chief guard showed Mike to a polished limousine,
it's black exterior coated with sheets of polymer stucco. Mike
admired the invulnerability before climbing into the front seat
with the driver.
   "You speak galanglic?"
   "What, do I look like a taxi driver or something?"
   Cold wind swept along the limo's prow, the forelights
scintillating in amber streaks as the vessel barreled against the
rushing breeze. The night was crisp and clear, the celestial
canopy flushed bright with a sparkling dew and far below, cool
waters broke inward with the folding swell, foam lingering on the
soft, white sands.
   "You see something interesting out there?"
   "Huh? Oh... not really."
   Sea birds drifted about on the quiet shore below the cliffs,
their outlines vaguely visible against the light drizzle.
Occasionally they'd group into pairs and then drift apart, some
coasting in circles and others swooping down to the breaking
tide. In the distance, a bright point of light appeared followed
by the faint whining noise of a turbofan. Mike hit the stick,
sending the limousine into a diving spiral. A moment later, the
missile impacted on the looming cliffs, sending shrapnel and
stones bouncing against the stucco.
   "Ay!"
   The driver pulled out of the dive, snaking across the choppy
waters as another point of light appeared.
   "Slow down."
   "Are you crazy?"
   "Do it."
   Mike leapt from the limousine as it slowed, the salty water
stinging his eyes as he dived beneath the waves. Suddenly,
everything turned bright orange, and for a moment he thought he
could see for miles beneath the sea. The explosion rippled the
current like a giant's hand slapping the surface, and Mike gasped
for air beneath the waves, choking on the salty fluid as it
invaded his throat. When he surfaced, all that was left of the
limousine was small specks of polymer stucco drifting downward
with the gentle rain.


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